By the Light of the moon
by ClairDeLaLuna
Summary: "It wasn't so bad, he decided, dying like this. Beautiful, poetic even. There wasn't anyone for miles, he knew, and the snow always looked so beautiful on the trees. He was okay with the moon and the stars watching over him gently as he slept. He didn't hurt anymore." Trigger warning, Suicide/suicide attempt (Alternate title: Clair De La Lune)
1. Chapter 1: Blessé: Hurt

_"Au clair de la lune, mon ami pierrot. Prête-moi ta plume, pour écrire un mot."_

His voice, quiet at the best of times, was nearly inaudible despite the silence of the night. Matthew breathed deeply, each breath an exhillerating yet painful experience as he lay there in the freshly fallen snow, tears frozen on his cheeks as he painted the ground red with the blood from his wrists. He stared up at the full moon with something akin to bitterness in his heart. How dare it be so beautiful, on the night he had chosen to die? How dare the beauty of the heavens mock him so eloquently?

Winter wasn't such a bad season. You didn't even notice the cold much after awhile. Sure, it was painful for the first while, as you lay there, a mockery of a snow angel. His button down shirt, the same shade of the snow, was thoroughly beyond soaked by now. It was, in fact, frozen solid. His hair like fine gold lay as a halo around him, as his skin turned a lovely shade of alabaster white. _"Thank god,"_ He thought to himself dimly, _"The shivering has finally stopped."_

The worst part of his death would be that no one would care. No one would even notice. Not even his own family. Maybe during the holidays, France would notice that he was hugging one less person. Maybe his bear would notice that he wasn't being fed anymore. Russia might notice his chairs were a lot more comfortable. England might have his hands full with America more often. And America...

Matthew was surprised to find that he still had the vitality left to cry. Softly, as soft as snowflakes, tears rolled down his cheeks. Maybe it was better this way. He had never felt so alone but... maybe it was better this way. Better alone, where he couldn't back out. Better alone. He could remember a time, as brief as it was, when it wasn't like this. When it was all Alfred could do to keep his brother as close as possible, fearing the "Communist taint" that still lay in Alaska. Or when he'd decided he wanted to stay with his baby brother forever, in 1812. He could remember a time when Arthur and Francis fought over more than just crumpets and croissants. Sure, the discord between his French and English colonies had been painful at best, enough to keep him in bed for days, weeks, months at a time but... he hadn't minded then. Not really. It was hard to mind the pain when it meant someone loved you enough to fight for you.

It wasn't like that now. Even Prussia, who wasn't even a goddamn nation anymore, received more acknowledgement than Canada. So much for all that hard work during the first and second world war. If it weren't for the Tulips he recieved every year, he didn't think anyone would remember he was even involved in that.

Come to think of it, he didn't think anyone remembered anyways.

"Netherlands will have to send the tulips to my boss, instead of me." Matthew whispered sadly, speaking up to the twinkling eyes of the stars and big sister moon. A soft breathy sigh left his blue lips, eyes looking around him lazily while he continued to lay in his bleeding angel. _"By the light of the silvery moon... this is where I meet my doom."_ He sang softly, closing his eyes. It wasn't so bad, he decided, dying like this. Beautiful, poetic even. There wasn't anyone for miles, he knew, and the snow always looked so beautiful on the trees. He was okay with the moon and the stars watching over him gently as he slept. He didn't hurt anymore.

"Matvey."

What a beautiful voice.

"Matvey, open your eyes. Wake up. You're not dying yet."

Why did he sound so sad?

Matthew heard a sigh. "If you insist on being difficult..."

Suddenly, he was no longer in the snow. Instead, he was in the warm embrace of somebody whom he couldn't see. A whine left his lips. _"Non."_ He murmured, _"Je veux mourir. S'il vous plaît laissez-moi en paix."_ Instead of being placed back down, however, he was pulled closer to the heat of the large body and, despite his better judgement, he instinctively snuggled closer. Whoever he was, he smelled good. Like musk. And pine. And vodka.

"Nyet, Matvey. You may not die. Not tonight." Lips brushed his forehead, his cheek, his no-longer bleeding wrists. Still, Matthew refused to open his eyes.

"You're not alone anymore."

Lavender eyes met violet, and then he started to cry.

**... Well... that was quite a bit darker than what I usually do. I'm sorry. The uhm, translations are:**

Au clair de la lune...: By the light of the moon, My friend Pierrot, Lend me your pen, to write a word. It's an old french folk song, often sung as a lullaby or taught in music class to teach easy music, written in the 18th century. I don't know whether you guys already know this or not but... yeah.

**Onto darker translations... **

**Je veux mourir: I want to die  
S'il vous plait, laissez-moi en paix: Please, leave me in peace. **

**Depressing oneshot is depressing. But at least it's semi happy at the end? **

**~Luna**


	2. Chapter 2: разочарование: Disappointment

Ivan hated the cold. He may have been Russian, but the thing he hated the most was winter. All winter brought was death and misery for him. What he wanted most out of anything was to live in a warm, sunny place. Sleep in a field of summery sunflowers, that was his dream. Instead, he was a captive in his arctic wasteland, subject to the tortures of his people, the victim of General Winter's anger. He hated winter more than anything else, and yet, there he was, tredging his heavy body through the frozen wasteland that was his home.

He had to get out of the house. Before he harmed them again.

It was horrifying how much delight he took in torturing him, sliding his silver blade against their flesh and watching the rose-y red blood swell to the surface, kissing the blade. Watching the purple and blue appear magically from the places he beat them with his pipe. Their cries, the way their bones would bend in ways they shouldn't as he brought his wrath down upon them. He hated the delight he took in torturing them, and yet, he couldn't seem to stop himself.

It was the other reason he hated winter. It always brought these feelings out of him.

"Hm?" Ivan blinked, his violet eyes confused as a peculiar sensation ran down his spine. He'd gotten so used to feeling his citizens freeze and starve that he barely noticed it anymore, but the feeling of somebody freezing, bleeding, dying... it was much stronger than he was used to. It took him less than a moment to realize why – during his torture, and his rush to get out of the house, he hadn't paid any attention, but remembering it now he could distinctively feel the sensation of having another nation in his land. Not one of his favourite three – Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia – nor his sisters, Ukraine and Belarus. It felt like... one of the Westerns. And they were dying.

He walked quickly, as if being lead by a homing device. He could hear the singing, not too far from him. The male had a beautiful voice, even if it was weak with blood loss and the icy winds. If it weren't for Russia searching for him, he may not have even heard it. When he finally stood before the boy before him, it took him a few moments to figure out who he was. He looked like America, that hamburger eating capitalist, but... thinner. Paler (though that could have been the cold). His hair was wavier, longer too. And there was a random curl.

A name popped into his head. Canada.

All at once, the memories flooded through him. Memories of hockey games, mostly, but also seeing the blond cower behind his brasher older brother during the cold war, calmly advising him, trying to get him to calm down and for the love of god please don't anger him because he was scary when he was angry and oh god I think he heard me protect me Alfred. Memories of fighting beside him during the World Wars, watching him with a rare sense of pride as he held the line even as his men died from inhaling the noxious gas. Even when Russia himself was running away in fear and agony, the little Canadian, barely even a country and still under Britian's rule, stood there, anger in his lavender eyes. The Canadian had held such strength back then, as small and young as he was.

"Matvey." Ivan said softly, looking down at him sadly. When there was no response, the white haired nation bit his lip. Was he too late?

No. He couldn't think like that. "Matvey, open your eyes. Wake up. You're not dying yet."

There still wasn't a response. He peered down at the male, watching him carefully to make sure he took a breath. That was when he noticed the blood surrounding him.

Ivan sighed. "If you insist on being difficult..." Without a warning, he lifted the smaller nation into his arms, holding him close. Ivan shuddered – he was so cold, how long had he been out here? He felt like death, but then again he was only wearing a tee shirt. To his delight, he heard a whine leave Canada's lips. Good. He was still alive, still conscious.

"_Non," _He murmured, _"Je veux mourir. S'il vous plait, laissez-moi en paix."_ Russia paused, looking down at the Canadian in shock. A part of him had already known that this was a suicide, but at the same time, he hadn't wanted to believe it. He was hoping against hope that it had been nothing more than an accident and yet... "I want to die, please leave me in peace." He said. Ivan, of all the people and nations in the world, understood that feeling more than anything in the world. To hear it from a young nation such as he, horrific words spoken in a beautiful language, well... it broke his heart. (Russia, of course, knew French. People may not have understood that, but he spoke it fluently. After all, his nobles spoke French fluently years ago.). Instead of placing him down in the snow, he clutched the younger male to his chest, feeling him snuggle closer to him and give an involuntary sigh of contentment.

"Nyet, Matvey, you may not die. Not tonight." Ivan murmured, gently brushing his lips against the boy's forehead, his cheek, his no-longer bleeding wrists with a sigh, his struggles with sanity momentarily forgotten, soothed by the hurting male. He wanted nothing more than to see the blond open his eyes, but still he refused. "You're not alone anymore."

Suddenly, those eyes flashed open, lavender meeting violet, and Canada started to cry. Ivan held him helplessly, shifting him so that he was protected from the harsh winds by his greatcoat, as he cried. He took no pleasure in hearing his sobs, feeling the shuddering of his smaller body in his anguish. Instead, it made him sick inside, knowing such pain was inside him. Before long, the Canadian was spent and fell asleep in his arms, prompting Russia to hold him closer to him and, instead of simply trekking the long way back to his home, simply transported himself to the doorstep, kicking the large door open. He rushed to the master bathroom upstairs, holding the near-frozen blond in his arms as he ran the bath.

Ivan paused. He had to undress him.

With a small sigh and a blush, he pulled his gloves off carefully and fumbled for Matthew's buttons, undoing them as quickly as he could. He gave him a cursory glance, surprised to see as many scars as he did. Really, he shouldn't have been surprised – though young, he'd seen his fair share of battles himself. Ivan wondered if there was any long lasting damage from the gas attacks in World War 1, then decided that was something he could worry about another time. His blush deepened and he muttered a curse under his breath as he undid the dark jeans and attempted to pull them off, only to be stopped by his shoes. "Chyort," he muttered in frustration, removing the shoes and tossing them aside before continuing to remove the pants. He paused barely a moment before removing his under clothes, too, keeping his eyes up above the waistline to allow him some decency.

Now was going to be the fun part. With a grunt, he lifted the boy up into his arms and lay him in the warm bath. A shriek left the previously-unconscious male's lips as he fought to get out of the bath._ "Chaud! Il fait trop chaud le! Connard vous me brûle! Tabernac! Laissez-moi sortir le! Je jure devant dieu que je vais pousser un bâton d'hockey dan le cul si vous ne me laissez pas sorti! Vous perverti pièce de merde!" _He continued to struggle against the arms of the Russian, even biting his arm. Angrily, Ivan slapped him across the face with a snarl, earning himself a very angry glare. "Let me out." Matthew said coldly, still struggling against him even as his cheek throbbed in pain. By now, Matthew's skin was bright red with the heat (although, in reality, the water wasn't that hot) and Russia, who had had the foresight to remove his greatcoat and precious scarf before putting him into the water, was soaking wet from the struggle. His hair dripped as his violet eyes stared into Canada's lavender ones, a matching angry expression in both of them.

"Nyet." he snarled.

"Ouais." Was his reply.

"_Si vous ne vous arrêtez pas et laissez-moi vous aider, je vous jure que vous allez le regretter ce." _Ivan said menacingly, his voice deadly soft as he spoke in fluent french. Matthew shuddered slightly.

"_Qu'est-ce que ça peut te faire, de toute façon?"_ He said brokenly, looking away. Ivan chose to ignore it.

"_Je vais dire à tous ceux que vous connaissez et aimez sur votre petit accident avec la lame."_ He said, pushing him back down into the water and watching him shudder. Instead of calming him down like it was supposed to, however, it only proved to put the anger and pain back into his eyes as he shoved against the Russian.

"Go ahead and tell them! They won't care! They don't even know who the hell I am! They're all, "Cana-who?" and "Hello America." I've never been good enough! My own damn bear doesn't know who the hell I am, _tabernac_, so why the hell would it matter?! As long as Alfred is okay, I don't matter..."

Ivan bit his lip, unsure what to do, "Where is your bear, anyway?"

Matthew slumped back into the water, closing his eyes as he fought off a lump of tears. "He's at my hotel." He whispered. Russia had to lean in to even hear him. "Last time I tried... I'd been at home when I did it... in the North. Kumaloompa is a lot more independent when we're at home... he lives with me but... he'll often go off on his own so when he... when he went looking for me and found me, he dragged me back home and tried to help me."

"Then why did you do it here?"

He sighed. "Kuma-kun doesn't leave my side when we're somewhere foreign. He doesn't know the place, so he doesn't feel comfortable unless he's either left at a hotel or in my arms. I figured... this way, he wouldn't go searching for me..."

"Then you lied, da?"

Matthew looked at him.

"Eh?"

"You lied." Russia frowned, "You said... they don't care. Your bear don't know who you are. But you also said he went looking for you. That means your bear cares, means he knows who you are. He may not know your name, but he knows you. He cares. Others care too. Don't be so quick to wish for death. You're still young."

Matthew scowled at him. "I'm almost 146 years old, Russia, I'm far from young."

"China is over 4,000 years old. Egypt is even older than I am. Greece and even Italy are even older than I am. The country of Russia is only 23, but as a whole I have been alive since the third century. You are still a young country, Matvey."

This brought about another scowl, but a less angry one, "How do you know my name, anyway?"

Ivan paused. When had he learned the nation's human name? He barely remembered him sometimes, so where had he picked up the name? It must have been during the first world war, he decided, after America had joined in. He remembered talking about how strong the young boy had been in his battles, and watched as America had swelled in pride. _"Oh, him?" _He had grinned proudly, _"Yeah, that's my little brother, Matty."_

"_Matty?" _The Russian had echoed, the English syllables feeling weird on his tongue.

"_Yeah, it's short for Matthew. England's idea. I just call him Matty for short, cause it's easier to say."_

"_I will call Matvey." _Russia had nodded.

"_You do that."_

Ivan smiled a little at the memory. "America told me. In first World War. I had told him about how strong you were, how brave you were. He was really proud of you. Wouldn't shut up about how you had beat him up in 1812, before you were even a country."

Matthew's eyes widened. "H-He did? You mean it?"

Ivan nodded and watched as once again, tears started to roll down the Canadian's cheeks. He said no more, however, and let the Russian warm him up. When he seemed warm enough, and looked to have narrowly avoided frostbite (how they managed that, Ivan had no idea), he helped the younger male out of the bath, draining the pink-tinted water. "I will find you new clothes." He said, kicking the frozen clothing aside before offering him a fluffy red towel. Canada paused a moment. Normally, red was his favourite colour, but this was Russia. Red, for him, symbolized communism. The Red menace.

"I'm thinking like Alfred again." He muttered, taking the towel and wrapping it around himself and shivering. He followed Russia to the bedroom, watching as he tossed a large blue shirt, sweater and a pair of sweatpants onto the bed.

"I will put your clothing in the wash. For now you will have to go.. what do they call it? Commander?"

"Commando. And.. that's alright." He said awkwardly, taking the clothes and looking around for a place to change. Helplessly, he decided to just turn around and put his back to the Russian, pulling the sweatpants on first. Ivan was surprised to see that the Canadian seemed to have even more scars on his back. They weren't nearly as bad as Russia's own, but they were still violent, for sure. He wondered what had caused them.

"Sorry about your shirt..." Matthew said softly after he had pulled on the sweater, sticking his hands in his pockets and trying to make himself seem as small as possible. He wanted nothing more than to have Kumacheerio in his arms again. Actually, no. He wanted nothing more than to be back in that field, to have let the cold lull him into a soft sleep. Didn't Russia know how embarrassing it was? To be undressed and saved by your former enemy? Although there were a lot of differences between America and Canada (more so than he realized sometimes), both the North American brothers shared their hero complex, as well as their pride. He couldn't stand being saved by anyone, let alone him. Ivan, meanwhile, was unaware of the Canadian's dark thoughts, and he glanced down at his aforementioned wet shirt , having completely forgotten about it. He shrugged and walked back over to the dresser , pausing. He didn't want Matthew to see his scars.

"Turn away." He said firmly. Canada nodded stiffly and turned away as the Russian unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside. The blond turned slightly as he peeked, curious despite himself, and found himself surprised by the amount of scars all over Ivan's back. What had happened to him? He'd never _seen_ so many scars...

Matthew quickly turned away as Ivan turned around. "You may look now." He said, adjusting his spare scarf around his neck as he faced him. The Russian made the decision to retrieve his favourite scarf the moment the young nation before him seemed safe and unlikely to run away again. This one was too itchy, no other scarf compared to the one Katyusha had made for him. Matthew defiantly ignored Russia, petulant as a child, and waited a full minute before turning back around, arms crossed over his chest.

"Let's get this straight, Russia," he said snidely, "I do not like you, you don't like me. I never wanted your help. Just because you got me to cry doesn't mean anything – it's easy to make me cry. Just ask... well, I don't care who you ask. They'll just give you stupid looks anyways. But whatever. I don't like you. And just because you know my human doesn't mean you have permission to use it." He said, his lavender eyes uncharacteristically cold.

Ivan blinked. He didn't like the Canadian? Since when? He'd always respected the other arctic nation, whenever he remembered him that was. Even during the Cold War, with their animosity towards each other, he'd always found an interest in the little Canadian. While he certainly had hated America (and still did, some days), he had mostly felt disappointed when the little one had decided to follow his older brother's lead. Such a strong young nation, falling prey to his brother's ideals. How quickly he began to lose himself shortly after, though, to be fair, he hadn't really come into his own yet any way. He wasn't like the other nations, Canada, who had to develop on their own. Even the ones who had been governed, who had been colonies, quickly grew to have their own culture and separate. Canada however... he took so long to leave England's home, and then when he did, he immediately ran for America. It was if... he didn't know how to be independent. Didn't know his own strength.

"I never said I hated you, Matvey." Russia said simply, looking at him. He couldn't help his small smile as the angered turned his skin a delicious pink. He knew he shouldn't be goading him so soon after his brush with death, but he just couldn't help it. It was that season.

"I sad don't call me that! I am Canada to you! Canada, dammit!" He snapped angrily, his voice breaking. "I mean, who the fuck do you think you are? My own damn family can't remember my fucking name, except Alfred on the best of days. They can't even remember my _country_, let alone my human name! So what gives you the right to use my human name, if my own damn family can't, eh?"

"I didn't mean to make you cry."

Matthew's lips trembled, his cheeks puffing out (much like a blowfish) as he pouted. "'m not cryin'" he muttered petulantly, hiding in his fluffy hair and crossing his arms over his chest. Tears rolled down his cheeks, evidence of his lies. A small part of Ivan felt bad – he really didn't mean to cause him to cry. God, this kid was so damned bipolar. However, the rest of him was preoccupied with how fucking adorable he looked, all sulky and pouty, hair still wet from his impromptu bath. Russia giggled and pinned the childish Canadian against the wall, earning himself a squeak and a growl. Despite Matthew's best efforts, Ivan could not be fended off as he poked and prodded his cheeks, squishing them happily.

"Stop it!" Canada whined, kicking outwards.

"Aww but you're so cuteeee."

"Maple, what are you, Spain? Shtop squish'n m' fayshe, ashole! 'm not Romano!"

Ivan giggled more, but pulled away quickly when the Canadian's kick very nearly reached his palace. "Hey! Watch it."

"I said stop." Matthew retorted unabashedly. Russia sighed in annoyance and grabbed Matthew's wrist, causing the frailer nation to cry out rather suddenly. Ivan dropped his wrist in shock, confusion written on his face before he remembered the scars on his wrist. With another sigh, he lifted the Canadian into his arms (much to his protest) and then tossed him suddenly onto the bed.

"Hey!"

Ivan ignored him and reached under his bedside table, pulling out the first aid kit he kept there. "What're yo- hey!" Canada protested again as his arm was wrenched from his chest, the sleeves roughly pulled up to his elbows. "Don't look!" Ivan's lips curled into a sad frown as he stared at the scars along his wrists, more than he could even count. He looked up at Matthew, but his lavender eyes had evidently decided that the bed spread was the most interesting thing in the world at that moment.

To be fair, it certainly was interesting looking.

Russia blew air from his lips in a huff, running his large thumb over the jagged wounds gently. Though they were no longer bleeding, he knew they had to be cleaned and stitched. _'God, Matvey, what did you use? A saw?_' He thought to himself as he pulled the hydrogen peroxide from the kit, the cotton balls coming out next. "This will hurt." He said warningly.

Canada refused to respond.

As he cleaned the wounds, watching the young Canadian flinch in pain, he decided to ask the question that was on the forefront of his mind. "How did you get all those burns? The ones on your right side, and the one near your heart?" Ivan noticed Matthew stiffen, watch as his expression darkened.

Matthew sighed. "December 6th, 1917 is when I was burned on the right side. It was during the Halifax explosion. A Norwegian ship and a French ship crashed into each other in the Halifax port and exploding, killing and maiming thousands..." He shuddered, "the second one, near my heart... is from when Alfred decided to burn down my capital city."

Ivan paused in his cleaning, looking up at him in shock. "America did that?"

Matthew nodded uncomfortably, his right hand reaching up to touch where the scar was, a long term compulsion of his. "Yeah. Everyone nowadays seems to think that 1812 was nothing for America and I, considering how close we are nowadays, and though we do joke about it sometimes nowadays... it wasn't... it was a war. A true war, one that I fought on my own. England was barely involved. When Alfred... when he took over York, and burned it down despite his promises... I died. That's what happens when you destroy a nation's capital, did you know that? It isn't anything permanent, but it does kill us..." He sighed, "I returned the favour with Washington. England told me to. Sometimes I really hate him..."

Ivan simply looked at him, not wanting to speak. This was the most the small Canadian had ever said to him. After a moment, Matthew decided to speak again. "By the way, if we're not counting actual confederation and simply counting when we were colonized or whatever... Lief Ericsson tried colonizing Canada around 1000 AD, and the Iroquois Confederacy was formed in 600. Over thirty-thousand years ago, the first human inhabitants here crossed over from Siberia through the land-bridge. I didn't really exist back, then, not really, it's... hard to explain, but I sorta just wandered around as this sort of... person but not really until the confederacy. So, I'm not as young as I may seem to you. I'm young as a country, sure, but as the embodiment of the land and the people, I'm as old as many of you. So shut the hell up about me being young, eh?"

Russia scowled at him, not understanding why the hell he was taking such attitude from the Canadian. Without warning, he had shoved him back against the bed, violet eyes boring into Matthew's lavender ones angrily. "You will listen to me, da? You are in my home, in my house, in my bed. Whether you like it or not, I have saved your life, da? You will show me the respect I deserve."

Matthew trembled slightly, though anger was still evident on his face. "If you do not recall, I did not wish to be saved."

Ivan rolled his eyes. "Suck it up, your highness. You want to be treated as an adult? Start acting like one. Don't be such a stupid child. Now sit still while I fix your hack job." He said snidely, jerking his arm again. Canada gasped and scowled, but otherwise said nothing as Ivan stitched his wounds. He flinched every time the needle went in, muttering a stream of Quebecoise curses under his breath. Ivan chuckled a little, not at all feeling bad for not using any pain killers to ease him through it. When he finished, he packed up his first aid kit and removed any object that could be used as a weapon, heading for the door.

"You will stay, da? Because I will make you. I will send Lithuania up with some food in an hour." He said curtly, walking out and locking the door behind him. Canada stared at the door in shock and dismay; what was he supposed to do now?

**Yeah, I know, I gotta update my other stories too, but this one attacked me... sigh. I'm also going to be doing a drabble fic, but I gotta do Mia Famiglia first. I've created a fanfiction chat group in the forums, too! www. Fanfiction myforums / ClairDeLaLuna / 2495605 /**


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